


what you see and how you see it

by sinception (sensucht)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensucht/pseuds/sinception
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Les Mis kink meme.<br/>Les Amis d'ABC, after graduating university, begin teaching at a lycée in the fifth arrondissement after the dean, M. Fauchelevant, decides to "bring life to the stagnating school environment". Unsurprisingly, school life becomes a lot more exciting for the high school students: frustration from watching Mlle. Fauchelevant and M. Pontmercy's shy flirting and M. Enjolras and M. Grantaire's more... belligerent variety, wishing they were in M. Prouvaire's literature class, swooning over M. Courfeyrac, laughing with (and occasionally at) M. Bahorel, and gossiping about M. Bossuet's purported relationship with the school nurse. M. Combeferre, the librarian, observes all these happenings and wonders how it's possible that the teachers' lives contain more drama than the students'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. an introduction; eyes

**Author's Note:**

> it's the first time i've posted to ao3 (and my first time writing les mis fic) so i don't really know if i did things right, haha...  
> anyway, we'll see how this goes.

There is a beautiful lycée with a charming Baroque façade on the Rue Saint Jacques, in the fifth arrondissement. This is the famed Latin quarter, home of the Sorbonne and the Jardins de Luxembourg, birthplace of modern education. This is where student revolutions began and where intellectuals gathered. This particular school, despite its age, is still attended by nearly two thousand students; as one of the most elite lycées in Paris, it prepares them for entry to even more prestigious universities around the world. The list of famous alumni stretches for miles--Molière, Victor Hugo, Georges Pompidou, Voltaire, Jacques Chirac...

But before we go on, let it be known that this is not a story about the past. No, this is a story about the everyday goings-on at an elite school (a "prep school", if you will) located in the heart of one of the world's most memorable education districts--in Paris, the City of Love.

\---

A young man known as M. Combeferre is the librarian at this particular school. He wears his hair in a dark blonde ponytail at the back of his neck ("Just like a romance novel," the girls titter), his glasses sliding precariously towards the end of his nose. 

Despite the library's position at a far wing of the school, he isn't lonely; many of his friends from university attended school in this very district and were hired along with him. They are indeed young, but the dean, M. Fauchelevant, knew what he was getting into when he hired ten fresh-out-of-university twentysomethings to "bring life to a stagnating school environment". Of course, the fact that his own daughter had recently graduated with a teaching degree most likely had something to do with it, as well.

Combeferre thinks that the dean is right. They've definitely brought life to the Lycée Louis-le-Grand, in ways only he, a quiet librarian, can see. And that is where our story starts.

\---

Mlle. Fauchelevant is visiting M. Pontmercy's room again. Why? Combeferre isn't entirely sure, but he can see both of their heads through the window on the classroom door. He was asked by Marius to bring several books to his creative writing class this morning; the other man had had a Starbucks clutched in his hand, his shirt front rumpled, only one of his sleeves inside his jacket. Combeferre, being Combeferre, had felt inordinately bad for him and had opted to bring him all the textbooks he would need for the next term.

This made a total of four trips using his trusty librarian's cart, but he knew it would save him time in the long run.

He pauses outside the door; Marius' voice is carrying through the large room, and even Combeferre can hear it clearly. "Now, how can we describe her eyes?" he asks. Combeferre lets out the barest hint of a sigh as he realizes what Mlle. Fauchelevant is doing in Marius' classroom. The class calls out, "Azure! Sapphire! The deep end of the pool!"

Combeferre quietly opens the door; both Mlle. Fauchelevant and M. Pontmercy are looking at each other with what can only be described as pure adoration. The blush that lights up both their faces is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Some of the boys are oohing and aahing; the girls look as though they're about to squeal or faint at the cuteness. As Mlle. Fauchelevant eventually turns away, telling them that she has really enjoyed the class but it's time for her to prepare for her choir block, Combeferre enters. The boys hoot, "What about M. Combeferre's eyes? You should describe those too, M. Pontmercy!"

"Dark green," Marius says, face still red, making sure to avoid Combeferre's eyes, "the colour of a forest at sunset." He gives Marius a wry grin as he starts unloading the last batch of books. "You didn't even have to look," he teases, and Marius splutters a bit before attempting to regain his composure and teaching his class.


	2. belligerent flirting; staff room gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i write most of this stuff at like midnight and i'm usually falling asleep so i'm very sorry if i randomly switched tenses (a recurring problem of mine) or if there are any grammatical errors oops

As far as Combeferre can remember, since the day Enjolras and Grantaire met sparks have flown between them. At first it was about Enjolras' political activities and campaigning; in university, their little group had always been particularly invested in human rights and equality. Grantaire was the only one who disdained their activities, proclaiming that nothing could change; often, he would sit late into the night at the café on the Place St. Michel with Enjolras, debating whichever cause came first to mind. Combeferre knew that university had been hard for Grantaire, that after his sister's unexpected death in freshman year he had ceased believing in almost everything. He was never a particularly optimistic person, and that final blow had sent him into a tailspin.

It had eventually gotten to the point that the only thing he could believe in was Enjolras.

Combeferre knew that Grantaire only argued with the golden-haired boy so that he might catch his muse's attention, so that he might see blue eyes staring into his own. He craved the attention of this man whom he loved and venerated as fine marble, an Apollo, as a savage Antinous. Combeferre saw, clearly, how in love Grantaire was with their fearless leader; he saw how every one of Grantaire's artistic dreams and Greek mythological obsessions came to life within Enjolras. In fact, he still saw it every day, since they were now all working at the same school.

It became a bit painful, after a while.

Recently, though, Combeferre had noticed that something had changed between them. He didn't ask Enjolras what it was, despite their close relationship; instead, he simply observed them, not willing to interfere as Courfeyrac had once suggested. It is a warm day in early June, not so long after the incident with Mlle. Fauchelevant and M. Pontmercy, when Combeferre first sees a tangible change.

"Grantaire, put the bottle down!" Enjolras snaps. Grantaire has a bottle of watercolour masking fluid in his hands; his class isn't going to start for another seven minutes, but many of the girls and several boys are already gathered to watch the show. The smirk that curls at the corners of Grantaire's mouth is enough to make some of the girls flush. "Or what?" Almost imperceptibly, Enjolras leans in towards him, rosy mouth slightly open. "Or..." he says, in that particular voice he's reserved for Grantaire which Combeferre has heard a thousand times, "Or I'll ask Combeferre to lend me all of the books on the nationalist art movement for my history classes. You're teaching a course on it next week, aren't you?" Neither of them have noticed Combeferre slipping in and placing several figure-drawing books on Grantaire's desk. He lingers at the door, wanting to see what happens. 

"You wouldn't dare," Grantaire says, grinning mockingly. But there's the barest hint of a tremor in his voice that he hopes no one caught. If Enjolras takes out the books for his French history course, he won't have anything to teach his class with. "You've always considered the written word to be the purest form of historical record, haven't you?" Not waiting for the blonde to answer, he looks at him evenly and continues, "You wouldn't take out any of those books because you wouldn't have any use for them. You'd return them after a day," he says, grin still on his face, "not stopping to think of Delacroix's 'Liberty' or Monet's 'Rue Montorgueil'."

There is a flush spread across Enjolras' cheeks. "Not so marble now, are you?" Grantaire says teasingly, but his voice is quieter than before.

"I'll be taking the books," Enjolras replies calmly, hands still clenching the edge of the worktable. His eyes show flashes of anger, but there is also an underlying emotion which Combeferre has never seen on him before. With an almost uncharacteristic tenderness, Grantaire murmurs, "See about those books, then--we'll have a discussion on the significance of revolutionary iconography in French art on Friday." Enjolras turns quickly on his heel, face still burning, and as he passes Combeferre he bites down hard on his lower lip. 

Combeferre has known Enjolras for many years, and he must say he's never seen him quite this flustered. But before Combeferre leaves, he sees Grantaire's hands flutter over where Enjolras' clutched the table.

\---

Later that day, as Combeferre categorizes several new books into the library system, two girls walk in, gossiping. "They should kiss in the middle of one of their arguments!" one of them giggles. "It's so adorable!" The other one snorts indignantly. "Adorable?" She lowers her voice conspiratorially. "They just need to fuck, Thérèse. I can practically see it in their eyes when they're fighting, or flirting, or whatever they call it. And did you see last art class? God, he was sighing like his world had ended."

The first girl nods and flips her hair over one shoulder. "Still, Jo, you can't deny how great they look together. Blonde M. Enjolras, and M. Grantaire's beautiful dark hair. Their eyes are both so lovely, blue and green..."

With a shock, Combeferre realized whom they were talking about. Blushing a bit, he stuck his head self-consciously into a stack of dictionaries and didn't emerge until the two girls walked off, debating over if Grantaire or Enjolras would make the first move. Unsurprisingly, Grantaire won out. (This was what Combeferre thought would happen, too.)

From that point on, he knew exactly whom the students were talking about when they complained about the unresolved sexual tension and how they should just get into a closet and do it already. He briefly considered telling Enjolras (Grantaire likely already knew of the students' gossip) before resolving to simply let whatever would come of their relationship run its course.

\---

The teachers always have something to talk about in the staff room, usually whether or not M. Fauchelevant and the assistant dean M. Javert are in good spirits (M. Fauchelevant usually, M. Javert usually not) and if they're actually dating, as the rumours say. At times, it gets a bit disconcerting that M. Fauchelevant's own daughter is often in the room when these types of discussions go on; when asked, she always offers a mysterious, Mona Lisa-esque smile and says nothing. Conversations are civil enough.

Until one day, M. Prouvaire brings up a bit of a sore topic.

"Who do you think is the students' overall favourite teacher?" Jehan asks brightly. Combeferre sighs inwardly, thinking of the discussion that is to come. He isn't even sure if this is a loaded question or if Jehan is genuinely so naïve as to think that there are any teachers more well liked than himself.

Courfeyrac grins good-naturedly. "Come on, Jehan, like you can't already tell?" Jehan is wearing a pair of red paisley pants and a light pink button-down, and when he stands to retrieve some ice from the refrigerator everyone can see him. "You?" His smile is flirty and a bit mischievous. "Dear Courfeyrac, I meant students who like you platonically, not those who want to get in your pants!" For it was true that Courfeyrac won in that category, hands-down. The previous year, a transfer student had handed him a love letter the day before she left; despite the other teachers' pestering, he had never shown its contents to anyone.

"Jesus, Prouvaire," Bahorel said as he ripped his phone out of its charger, "he means you!" And Jehan giggled. "Me?" he asked, stifling a full-blown laugh. His smile quickly turned into a genuine, lovely grin when he realized they weren't joking. "But why?"

"You show them films," Enjolras points out. Enjolras was not opposed to being a "favourite teacher" if it meant his students would work harder, but it was his sharp tongue and unfailing journey towards the final goal (no breaks, no hesitation, no excuses) which tempered his history and politics classes' opinion of him. "There aren't many films one can show for a politics course."

"And you're nice," Grantaire continues, "not like some others I can think of." Enjolras narrowed his eyes slightly, Feuilly muttered, "I thought we were friends," and Bahorel yelled, "Hey!" Jehan flushed a bit at the praise; it was true that he tried to treat each student with kindness, giving them extensions if he deemed the situation acceptable, trying to make each piece of writing they studied into something they could empathize with. Poetry was his passion, but he also enjoyed most other forms of literature, and he wanted to pass on this enjoyment to his students.

At this moment, Bossuet struggled in, carrying an overstuffed backpack; Combeferre rushed forward and helped him take it off. He'd listened to the conversation in silence, sitting next to Enjolras and sipping a small cup of coffee. A librarian was not really a teacher, although he had taken over one philosophy course from a retiring professor, so he had no worry of being inducted into the conversation somehow. Most people didn't know he taught it. "Joly's in the office," Bossuet said by way of greeting. Joly was the school nurse, still as much of a hypochondriac as he had been in university.

"Anyway," said Courfeyrac after Bossuet had plopped himself down in a seat, "I think we know who--hey, where's Marius and Cosette?" His smile grew wider as he realized that they were both gone. Together. "Did they finally...?"

"I saw them leaving campus earlier," Grantaire offers helpfully. "Looked like they were going in the direction of the Luxembourg gardens?" Courfeyrac's laugh becomes even more intense. "Ah, the place where he first saw her!" They all know the story of how Marius saw a beautiful young woman in the Luxembourg gardens on a fine summer's day, how her blonde hair caught the sun and how her eyes seemed to shine as they looked past him--and how he quickly walked on by without saying a word (then meeting her on his first day on the job).

When the lunch hour is up, Combeferre sees Marius and Cosette sneaking in through the front entrance like bad actors in an overdramatic play (Cosette looks more like she is humoring her amour), nodding knowingly to Marius before returning to the library. Marius blushes violently, and Combeferre wonders if he really thought people wouldn't notice his and Cosette's absence.


	3. friendship; curious developments

It’s a warm afternoon when Combeferre finds Bahorel sitting in his office, not so far off from the school gym; he often takes coffee with the other man in the afternoon, when both have an half-hour break between classes. Combeferre arrives with the Nespresso machine from the library (“For teachers only” since the library wing is so far from the staff room) in his arms, as usual, and Bahorel has already taken out his personal stash of Dulsao do Brasil capsules from his desk. 

But today something is different.

Looking around the room, Combeferre sees that things appear messier than usual; there are papers strewn everywhere across the metal cabinet and there are several unwashed towels thrown around the laundry bin in the corner. Bahorel is looking forlornly at the door when Combeferre walks in; the Nespresso machine fails to elicit a response from him.

“You didn’t come to the staff room for lunch today,” Combeferre says mildly as he pushes the papers on the cabinet together into a pile. When he places the Nespresso machine on a now-bare space and plugs it in, Bahorel replies sullenly: “I went out for lunch.”

Combeferre doesn’t beat around the bush; he holds out his hand and Bahorel tosses a Dulsao capsule to him. This is performed with the same accuracy as his shooting hoops back in university; it’s not a very big sport among their group, but Bahorel enjoys it immensely. Turning back to the other man, he asks, “Is something wrong?” Bahorel’s lips quirk at the corners, but his eyes don’t change. “So it’s that obvious, huh?” 

The librarian resumes organizing the papers into a more orderly pile. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t... want to. But if you want to talk about it, I’m here for the next half hour.”

Bahorel is sulking. Combeferre realizes this; for his height and his intimidating appearance and ridiculous arm muscles, he is remarkably childish. It’s an endearing trait, and the Amis love him for it. He is good-natured, humorous, focused, brave, loyal. To see him like this is not pleasant. He takes his sweet time responding, waiting until the coffee machine beeps. When he picks up the cup, only then does he begin to talk.

“’Ferre,” he says, the look on his face as serious as it will ever be, “I... I’mafraidmystudentswillnevertakemeseriously.” Combeferre has to think for several seconds to muddle through Bahorel’s rushed statement, and when at last he does, he has to suppress the little smile threatening to break out on his face.

“Why?”

Bahorel puts the coffee cup on the table delicately before burying his head in his hands and resuming his rapid speech. “I... I don’t know, it started out with me telling jokes to try to get to know them better, or not telling jokes really... just, acting like I was their friend and things, you know. Like Jehan.” Jehan is the students’ favourite teacher. Courfeyrac jokes that if there was a schoolwide election to find the students’ preferred class, everyone would vote for Jehan’s, even the other teachers. “But I feel like I’ve fucked it now that they’re too comfortable with me—they laugh at everything I say even when I try to be serious, and, and I’m a teacher, I want to be taken seriously,” and now he’s stood up and is pacing behind his desk. Combeferre takes a seat in the chair opposite. “I’ve really fucked it.”

Combeferre puts down his coffee, placing a placating hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “You haven’t,” he says.

Bahorel sits in response, chugging his coffee furiously before cringing. He’s probably burnt his tongue. Combeferre continues, “Maybe you should explain to them that while it’s alright to joke sometimes, you are their teacher and you deserve their respect.” After a pause, Bahorel’s face seems to relax, and he takes another sip of the coffee. “I... I guess I’ll try that, then,” he says. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Combeferre allows himself to smile, then. “Tell me how it goes,” he says, and they drink the rest of their coffee in silence.

\---

The Enjolras and Grantaire stage show (playing in the lower art studio) continues on its merry way, with increasing reactions from the students; as Combeferre reorganizes the 210 – 218 section of the library shelves (silently thanking God for the Dewey decimal system), he hears the two girls from before, Thérèse and Jo, the next aisle over.

“Oh my God,” he hears Jo say, “it happened again this class. This is getting ridiculous, I swear to God. Half of me wants to just go and ask them what the hell they think they’re doing, and the other half is just... I don’t even know.” Through a gap in the bookshelf he sees Thérèse nod in agreement; they eventually leave without checking anything out and Combeferre wonders what classes they’re skipping to gossip about their teachers.

Combeferre is able to see their antics live for a second time, again in the art room, when he has to order several books on Roy Lichtenstein and needs the titles from Grantaire.

It’s 10:25, and the art class is about to start. The students are mostly sitting around, some of them giggling and looking at the art supply closet (there’s probably a couple making out in there, Combeferre thinks. Little does he know.) It’s unusual for Grantaire to be anywhere else other than the art studio during the day. Combeferre sees Feuilly’s red hair poking out from behind an easel, and walks up to him, asking “Where’s Grantaire?”, and Feuilly’s face breaks out into a grin as he points towards the closet. “Over there.”

By this point, there’s a sinking feeling in Combeferre’s stomach. “In the... supply closet?”

“With Enjolras,” Feuilly says by way of response as he sorts a pile of brushes into bins marked ‘clean’ and ‘dirty’. “I asked a couple students when I got in here and they just pointed over there, so... I’m guessing they finally got around to it.” Combeferre fights the blush threatening to spread across his cheeks, crosses his arms, uncrosses them, and finally turns back towards Feuilly. “Do you really think so?”

“I’ve heard of people doing stranger things in stranger places,” Feuilly shrugs, the smile still clear on his face. As a close friend of Grantaire’s, he knew very well how Grantaire felt about Enjolras (he’d christened it the ‘endless struggle’ when he knew Grantaire couldn’t hear). Before going back to school to train as a teacher, he’d worked a variety of odd jobs; his family hadn’t been very well off. Combeferre didn’t doubt that Feuilly had seen weirder happenings, but it didn’t make the fact that his best friend was banging someone in a supply closet any more comforting.

Speaking of banging, there was a definite crashing noise from the closet and several of the students began laughing outright. Combeferre sat down on a stool and buried his face in his hands just as the door swung open, and Enjolras emerged.

Where was the debauched expression? Where was the telltale loose tie and undone top button(s)? The students’ laughter immediately stopped when Enjolras’s icy gaze fell upon them. He strode over to Combeferre and Feuilly; the latter’s eyebrows were raised to an alarming degree. “Someone’s good at cleaning themselves up,” he teased, “you can hardly tell anything’s happened.” Enjolras’s furious mutter of “I was helping him find a chisel, God Feuilly” served to only widen Feuilly’s grin. “Why, so he can chisel your fine cheekbones? He talks about that a lot.” Enjolras’ cheeks go alarmingly red, and he crosses his arms as Grantaire emerges from the storeroom as well.

They both don’t look very different than usual; Grantaire is, indeed, holding a chisel. “Thought I lost this,” he says, half to the class and half to himself. Seeing Combeferre, he jerks his hand towards his desk. “The list is over there, uh, sorry about the wait.” He doesn’t have to add the “and I wasn’t banging your best friend in a closet”; the look of contrition on his face (probably because he wasn’t, not because of embarrassment) is enough. Clapping his hands, he gets the class’s attention, and Feuilly resumes his task of organizing the brushes. To an outsider, it looks as though the whole incident has been forgotten and that it was nothing but a misunderstanding. (Combeferre knows better.)

As Enjolras and Combeferre are leaving the room, Enjolras self-consciously feels his face. “Do you think Grantaire actually said my cheekbones are fine?” he asks, and Combeferre quietly smiles to himself all the way back to the library.

\---

Combeferre is checking his iPhone in the waiting room of M. Fauchelevant’s office when the door opens; to his surprise, it’s not the dean who emerges but M. Javert. His tie is strangely loosened, his suit jacket is rumpled, and his hair, despite being in a rather utilitarian cut, is sticking out in all directions. He moves quickly through the room, careful to avoid looking at Combeferre’s eyes, and the door shuts behind him as he leaves. After several minutes, the door opens again, and this time it is M. Fauchelevant who invites him in. Combeferre can’t see anything amiss with his clothes.

“You wanted to discuss the topic of the banned books?” M. Fauchelevant asks, and Combeferre nods. He disagrees with the idea of banned books—he has always been a supporter of freedom, literary and otherwise—and he knows that the dean agrees. Before Combeferre continues the discussion, though, there’s a question he has that he’s dying to ask. “But, ah... was M. Javert—”

“Yes,” says the dean, lips twitching, and then quickly launches into a discussion about the appropriateness of ‘Lolita’ in a high school setting. He dodges the topic of why the assistant dean emerged from his office in a rather inappropriate state about as gracefully as a bear avoiding a bullet. Combeferre obliges him.

But oh, will he have a lot to talk about in the staff room this lunch hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i didn't think about this before i started writing this chapter but bahorel and combeferre could be pretty good friends! a man of action and a man of words right?  
> "but who is combeferre gonna get with at the end of the fic??" well the answer is i dont know  
> "are enjolras and grantaire ACTUALLY going to bang or are you just going to keep teasing us" we just dont know  
> "WHY is feuilly a redhead" because  
> "whats going on in here" hell if i know im making this up as i go
> 
> THANKS FOR READING and my tumblr is [enjolrazzi](http://enjolrazzi.tumblr.com) so come and say hi if you want!!


End file.
